


Tear You Apart

by Hamburglar



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 1986 to be specific, Agoraphobia, Bisexual Male Character, Codependency, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Hange is a nonbinary doctor, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It's the 80s, Levi is a cokehead asshole, Mental Illness, Mike is a sweet dude just doing his best, Model AU, Multi, Murder, Past Rape, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Self-Medication, Slow Burn as hell, Spouse Death, Stalking, Unrequited Love, prescription abuse, so much cocaine god damn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2018-12-30 08:57:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12105207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamburglar/pseuds/Hamburglar
Summary: "I want to hold you closeSkin pressed against me tightLie still, and close your eyes girlSo lovely, it feels so rightI want to hold you closeSoft breasts, beating heartAs I whisper in your earI want to fucking tear you apart"





	1. Tear You Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which she breaks again.

Today it is especially hard to breathe. She pulls at her chest, the dull ache of emptiness overwhelming. Her mind has cut off oxygen from her lungs, no air to make audible noise as she sobs into a soaked pillow. It's a shame, really. She'd been doing so good lately. 

No description of the sheer effort needed to take a breath in that moment is enough. To put it into words would be a disservice. Cheapen the gravity of her pain. Her body wracks in grief, a horrible noise bouncing from her throat to the walls. In the acoustics of her apartment, it is the Virgin wailing over Jesus' body. Pure, unadulterated suffering like none before. Hollow, aching despair.

It doesn't take long for her body to exhaust itself, eyes too sore to spare tears. Sleep is it's own evil. A respite in the darkness, a taste of what it is to be nothing. It's a tease. Because she has to wake up. She always wakes up. 

But he didn't. Not anymore.

Death is a part of life, they tell her. He was in a better place now. That's not saying very much. This place was hell. These walls... the windows all around... the floors. It was a prison of her own creation. But it was better than the world out there. The world that took him away from her. 

It stole all of her happiness. It stole the right to her body, which now writhed with phantom pains. It didn't do what she wanted anymore. It belonged to someone else. If she could cut every bit of skin off and throw it away... she would. It takes twenty seven days for skin to regenerate itself. It had been two years, four months, and three days. Her skin had renewed some 31 times. But she still couldn't get clean. No matter how hard or much or often she scrubbed, this body was a burden. Marred. Ruined. Void.

When her mind wakes her again, she swallows a pill. One of the heavy ones that are reserved for the harder days. She just can't seem to find her footing this morning. It's not always like this. Sometimes she's quiet and makes tea and writes and cleans. But not every day can be like that.

Sometime between rising and setting- she can't tell the difference between suns anymore- the sky is unbearably bright. Though she feels filthy, she doesn't bathe. 

She stares into a bowl of bloated fruit loops, the spoon resting against her palm with the promise of lifting. The milk has soaked a sickly orange color by the time she can raise a bite to her mouth. No, she decides. Today is not for eating. 

With an ache in her hips, she floats like a specter towards the bathroom and thinks about whether turning on the light would be worth having to look at herself. Her fingers twitch over the switch. It flips of its own accord, burning her eyes with artificial light. The reflection is more like a hologram. She doesn't register the thin, pallid thing before her as herself. She is detached from its clumped hair and chapped lips, its pink rimmed eyes, its sharp edges and paper thin skin. 

The synapses in her fingers don't connect fast enough to untangle her matted hair, she gets frustrated and gives up. Her mouth is glued shut. She should brush her teeth, maybe. Drink some water. Or sit in the shower for a long, long time. 

She decides to bathe. 

Her arms shake, peeling the t-shirt from her frame makes her feel skeletal. There is nothing between her bones to keep them from grinding together at the joints. Her knees knock against one another, ankles wringing with pain as she steps under hot water and let's herself drown in it. 

She doesn't feel anything alive beneath the skin that she scrubs so gently. Just faint traces of dried blood and black sitting stagnant in sore capillaries. She steps out of the shower and feels dirty again.

The mess on her head is less hair than long tangled string. So she cuts it. She holds scissors close to the roots and hacks all around, locks pooling in the sink. A weight is lifted from her shoulders. The hair they touched was gone. Everything on her head is fresh and new and all hers, as ugly as it looks.

The only colors in her skin are trails of blue veins. They hardly pump anymore, she thinks. They are too close to the surface. 

Her skin is too thin. 

Her organs are rotten. 

Her eyes drip.

When she finds sleep again, it's on the sofa. 

Her eyelids are cement. 

Her teeth are glass. 

Her bones are ugly. 

The doorbell rings, rolling through the loft like a storm. Had she forgotten to redress herself? She slips into a discarded robe from the floor. Her fingers stumble over the lock, finding that she'd forgotten how to open the door.

A pitiful gaze makes her regret answering. 

"You promised."

What was that again? Oh yes, she had promised to take better care of herself after the last hospital visit. She'd forgotten.

Her voice sounds unfamiliar and distant when she speaks, like an echo in her own throat. "I'm fine."

He pushes in gently, not as if she could put up any resistance in her state. His eyes scan the room. It's moderately messy, but more worryingly, just the same as it had been last month. It's like she hadn't moved since then.

"Get dressed. We're going to the clinic."

"I'm fine, Mike." She begs.

"Then what did you do to your hair?" He reaches to touch her head but thinks better of it. "You're starving yourself again. You're not taking your medication. You're not taking calls from Dr. Zoë. What else do you expect me to do?"

She can't stand anymore, so she gently lowers onto the couch. "It's been a bad week."

"I haven't been here in a month, Ophelia. Do you know what day it is?"

She looks into her hands. She doesn't know.

Mike sits down on the sofa beside her, keeping a distance between their bodies. "Look. I... can't imagine what you're going through. But I know that you need help that I can't give. I need to take you to stay at the clinic for a while. If you put some weight on and show me you can take care of yourself, I'll let you stay here."

There isn't any choice but to do as he asks, regardless of the fear it strikes in her heart. To think of leaving the loft… she dreads it worse than anything, worse than death. It's her home. It was his home. It's safe here and nowhere else. She had to learn that the hard way. 

Mike collects some things for her and says they can buy anything he didn't pack.

She has to take a pill. Then another. When the shaking stops and she feels too heavy to escape, they can leave. Mike has the car pull up to the lobby. She lets him lead her by the shoulders, like a drowsy child. Her feet stop at the door. She stands still. Panic sets in, even through the dull roar of medication.

"It's okay. I have you." He says quietly and opens the car door. He half lifts her into a seat, which puts no strain on him. She's even thinner than he thought.

Everything is white. Blindingly so. The smell, the lights, her bed sheets. A doctor looms over, examining her emaciated ribs. The nurse announces her weight aloud. It doesn't sound real.

Eighty six pounds. Only eighty six pounds of matter making up her body. Eighty six insignificant little pounds. In a sick way, she likes it. Not the thinness, or the control of not eating, but rather that with every pound wasted away, she’s closer to not existing. 

Needless to say, she’s cared for intensively, forced back into a healthy state with needles and pills and constant supervision. After a three month stay and handful of psych evals, all of which yielded their own cocktail of prescriptions, they release her back into Mike’s custody. The Vicodin makes it easy for him to navigate her up to the 14th floor without much resistance. She was completely numbed. But at least she weighed something now.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He murmured, urging her to lean against the wall as he unlocked the door. “You’re home.”

He’d had the loft cleaned in her absence. Even in the artificial dullness of her medicated state, there is a nagging anxiety of knowing someone besides her had been in there touching their- her things. Had they moved anything? Thrown anything away? She’s too tired to look around and check for missing items, but the paranoia keeps her awake long after Mike has said his goodbyes and left her alone. At some point the pills force her eyes shut and she wakes at an odd time. Four in the afternoon, the air is hot. He’d left the window to the balcony open. How inconsiderate. She blinks, counting the hours from her last dosage and finds herself two hours out from the next round. She stares at the little bottles. One for appetite, one for sleep, one for waking up, one for pain, one for her sadness, one for her anxiety. Only enough pills in each bottle to get her through the day, they think she’ll kill herself if they give her anything more. Mike will come every day, he said, to refill her prescription. She feels sorry for him being saddled with her care. Though, she was still paying him after all- well, her husband’s estate was, anyways. Minutes tick by and she has nothing to do but wait. Thirty minutes, then an hour, then she decides there’s no harm in taking her medicine a little early. What difference does it make?

The release is almost instant. Her head is filled with soft fog and her stomach growls. This is healthy, she thinks. This is what it’s like to be normal. Her cooking skills are a little rusty, she hasn’t used the stove since December- or was it November? She can’t recall, but she remembers a holiday spent alone. She’d spend all of them alone now.

When he found her, she was poor and young and alone in the world. He said that he liked her iron will, mistaking her solitude for independence. He became her family, her love, her life; and now with him gone, she was in the same, lonely place as before, only worse. Before, in her cardboard box of an apartment, she hadn’t known anything but pain. Now that she’d tasted true happiness, everything was heightened. She hurt so much more, even with people taking care of her. Mike assured her she’d never run out of money, that her husband made sure of it. But in this big loft, high above a glittering city, she felt more hopeless than she ever did in that dirty one bedroom shack he’d found her in.

The pan sizzles and pops as she stirs. A little fleck of oil splashes into her arm and stings like a bee. The momentary pain intrigues her. She hovers a hand over the stovetop. The steam and exploding oil burn her palm but she doesn't move. It isn’t about seeking pain, but rather a fascination with how little pain affects her. It sets off all the bells in whistles in her nerves, but her mind is so oppressively apathetic towards physical sensation that it doesn't really bother her. Pain is all relative, she thinks. A baby may bump it’s head and feel the same anguish she does when pressing her hand to a hot pan. It’s the worst pain either of them have ever felt relative to previous experience, and thus sets off the same physical and mental triggers as the other. No pain is greater than another, because pain can only be measured in terms of individual perception. She pulls her hand away when the skin starts to smell.

Fuck. It appears she can handle much more than she thought. The skin was already blistering, bubbling with open, wet sores. This needed more than her first aid kit could give, so she apprehensively calls Mike. He’d dropped her off just yesterday, and here she was burdening him again. She’d feel guilty if she could. 

He gags a little upon entering the place, stench of burnt flesh pervading his sensitive nose. “How bad?” He asks loud enough for her to hear from the kitchen. 

“Bad.”

“Accident?” He walks in briskly, trying to breathe solely through his mouth.

“Yeah.” She answers. “I didn't think it was hot yet.” 

“There- There’s oil in this pan, how did you not know it was hot?” He looks to the oven, then to the appalling state of her hand. It wasn't just a singe, she had to have kept it pressed down for a few seconds. It was fucking cooked. 

She’s still running it under cold water, just as she had been for twenty minutes. There’s no eye contact. “Not that one. This one.” She nods gently to the small pan in the sink. 

“You had time to move it off the stove and across the kitchen?” Mike all but rolls his eyes. He’d be more annoyed if he wasn't horrified. She doesn't answer. He sighs. “Alright. Hospital. Get your coat.”

“Can you-... can you just call a doctor to come?” 

Mike wants to pat her head, maybe hug her, but must remind himself she is his client. He can't afford to become emotionally attached, regardless of how pitiable she is. “I’ll call Dr. Zoë.” 

In an hour, her hand is wrapped expertly in a few layers of sterile gauze, completely immobile. “A few more seconds on that pan and we would've had to take you to burn unit.” Dr. Zoë peels their latex gloves off and begins to pack up their kit.

Ophelia examines her wrapped hand with too much interest to be casual. Zoë looks sympathetically at the woman before allowing Mike to lead her to the foyer.

“She hasn't even been home for a full day.” Mike breathes in exasperation, running a hand over his tired face.

“Have you considered getting her a care taker?” 

“I’m the caretaker.” 

“I mean a live-in. I could refer some-”

“No. I’ll take care of it. She's been through too much change recently. I think it may make her worse.” Mike glances over Hange’s shoulder to make sure they're still alone, before lowering his voice. “One more incident and she's back to in-patient care. Indefinitely.” 

They press their lips together in a thin line. “It might be best. She's sick.”

“I know.” He breathes a hopeless breath.  
…………………….

It’s a Thursday. Well, technically an early Friday morning. She only goes to the mail room at dawn to avoid running into anyone. The doorman is asleep, the halls are empty, and she is blissfully alone. 

She rides the elevator in silence, letters and bills and catalogs tucked in the pocket of her robe. It’s hard to avoid catching a glimpse of herself in the reflecting walls. Dr. Zoe and Mike had tried to fix her hair. It was still sloppily cut and awkward, but at least could pass for stylishly messy rather than a mistreated Barbie doll. Her face is less gaunt than she remembers it. It settles her mind to see some familiarity in her own appearance. 

The elevator doors open and she walks to the second to last apartment. When she tries the lock, it doesn't budge. Her dominant hand is stiff beneath layers of gauze, completely useless. She tries every key, just to be sure she isn't using the wrong one, but the lock sticks just the same. Her mouth goes dry, heart rattling like her key ring at the prospect of having to ask the doorman for help. She needed at least two more pills to bear a social exchange.

The distinct chime of the elevator doors opening down the all but stops her heart. She tries her injured hand, but the contact is a searing reminder of her wound. A cluster of spark plugs in her stomach ignite as the footfall approaches, passing her to the very last door in the hall. Her neighbor. 

A masculine cough acknowledges her awkwardly. She is unable to look away from the lock, sure she’ll faint if she moves. His keys jingle and the lock clicks on his door, but he doesn't open it. He must be staring. She can feel it.

“You… alright?” 

Fuck. Fuck. Her cheeks are prickling with heat, a primal urge to flee barely overcome by her better judgment. “My lock is stuck. I think.” She raises her head but not her eyes, training them on his shoes rather than his face. Polished black boots. They’re platformed and untied, hanging loose on the top. Odd. 

“Want me to try?”

“Please.” She backs away from her door to give him room and wraps her arms around herself. His footsteps are heavy. Confident. The cologne he wears is strong enough to smell from a distance. 

“What's up with your hand?” He asks before giving the lock a few noisy jerks. It finally clicks and he pushes the door open a few inches.

“Burn.” She hesitates, waiting for at least two feet of clearance before walking into her loft. “Thanks.”

“Mhm. What’s your name?” 

“Ophelia.” It’s foreign in her mouth, rolling off her tongue with the uncertainty of an unplanned lie. “I’m-” The door clicks shut. She deadlocks it and collapses to the floor, struggling to catch her breath.

“-Levi.” He finishes bitterly. Fucking bitch. 

She resolves to have her mail delivered to her door. Or maybe have Mike pick it up. Her heart can't handle another encounter like that. She takes a few pills to force her nerves to submit to relaxation. 

…………………..

 _Crunch_. “Keep them closed. Now step.” _Crunch_. “Wide step, there's a dip. Steady. Keep going.” _Crunch, crunch_. “Are you gonna cover my eyes the whole time?” “It’ll be worth it. Trust me.”

It is. Gloved hands release her sight and the internal warmth is overwhelming. Leaves of brown, orange, and red are thick on the ground. She looks up, hardly able to make out the overcast sky above the canopy of trees. Trees strangely barren and promising an encroaching winter. Everything smells of smoke and sweet decay; rotting leaves and crisp air blowing all around. She loves the fall.

“It’s-” she struggles to string words together, overcome with the beauty of the forest.

“You’re facing the wrong way, idiot.” He takes hold of her shoulders and positions her to the right. A weathered A-frame cabin stands proudly before them, like a picture in some fairytale. “Oh, Clem. It’s beautiful.” She clasps her hands over his neck. Her lips peck little kisses all over his face and he laughs through it. God, he’s all dimples. She loves it. “Sure you don't wanna sleep out here? You seemed pretty excited about the damn trees.” He teases and dangles a ring of keys in front of her face. 

Ophelia snatches them and barrels up the stairs to the door. Clement takes his time following, laugh filling the place up as she runs to and fro like an excited child in a brand new home, examining every nook and cranny. “Thought you’d like this better than a beach house in the Bahamas.”

“Of course I would!” Her hands and knees are already coated in soot as she peers into the fireplace for a starter. “Cozy cabins beat swimming and tanning any day.”

“That’s because you can't swim. Or tan.” He scoffs. 

“Swimming is for squares.” The flintstone sparks into the kindling and she blows the hot ashes into a flame. “I don't need to swim in the middle of a beautiful forest with the most fantastic husband ever.” The fire adopts a healthy glow, shining over her profile as she throws a sweet smile back to him. 

He plops himself on the hearth beside her, completely forgetting the bags that need to be unpacked as he snuggles her up into his arms.

It’s always worth it.

A noise wakes her up, shrill and painful to the heart, like a bleating lamb for slaughter. It sounds distant and too close at the same time, surrounding her like a bubble waiting to pop. After a few seconds of silence, she realizes the noise was her own. It tore her throat to pieces, pulling tears from her eyes like stubborn teeth, tangling her up in the silken bed sheets and cracking her dry lips until blood tainted her tongue. The scream was everything her unconscious had been trying to cope with in the past two years. Guttural, pure anguish. 

She felt relieved. A weight had left her chest, allowing cool air to filter in and out and bring life to her tired veins. Though she felt the incredible discomfort of dehydration and popped blood vessels, this was the best she’d felt in months.

Until the doorbell rang. 

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then over and over in quick succession, followed by beating knocks on the door. She hesitates, but the banging hurts her sensitive ears. Joints creak and crack with every step until she slides the lock open and peaks out the door just a sliver. 

“What the fuck was that screaming? I almost called the police.” 

He’s much shorter than she thought. In fact, just barely an inch or two over her. And yet, there's a commanding presence to him that intimidates her just the same as it did when he’d caught her in the hall the other night. He looks like a wax mannequin, eyes too sharp to be human. 

“Movie.” She musters. Her voice is rougher than usual and hurts to use. “Sorry, I’ll turn it down.”

He scoffs. “Some fucking stereo. Let me in.”

She couldn't have heard him right. He stares at her expectantly. “I’m calling the cops unless you show me everything is okay.”

The sting of her throat becomes a constricting panic, mouth swelling with saliva as if preparing to vomit. “No. Everything’s fine.”

“Then you shouldn't mind unlatching the door.” 

“You can't come in.”

“Why?” He peers just past her shoulder at the bit of darkness he can make out. “Is someone here?”

“No.”

He narrows his eyes. “Fine. Not my fucking problem, I’ll call the doorman. File a noise complaint.” 

Ophelia’s heart stutters, shaky hands fumbling to open the chain-lock. She drops her head and shrinks where she stands. A moment passes in silence before he accepts the unwilling invitation and steps inside. She hurries to close the door behind him. 

He flips the light switch and inspects every room as she waits in agony by the entryway. 

“So it was a movie, huh?” He calls from the bedroom after he’s satisfied there’s no one else with them. The TV is cold, he notes after pressing his hand to the back of the monitor.

This is humiliating. This is her worst fucking fear. Strange men in her home in the middle of the night? The thought would've sent her into a blind panic had she not taken three pills before bed. “No. Nightmare. I’m sorry.” Her fingers pinch and pull at the gauze on her injured hand, grounding herself in the sting of it. Her gaze is gaping, empty. She’s staring at the floor.

Levi’s annoyance falters. He should leave her alone, he knows it. Obviously she is not being murdered in her bed as he expected, nor was she watching a late night scream queen flick at max volume. She was a visibly sick woman. Everything about her looked fragile like a chipped porcelain doll. He should leave her be. But he doesn't. 

He leans his back to the opposite wall of her and crosses his arms. “You live alone?”

A pang of hot fear pierces her intestines and twists them up. This sounds familiar. He’s going to hurt her. She let this man into her house and he's going to hurt her. “No.”

“You only have one bed.”

“My husband.”

“You don't have a ring.”

“He’s-” her voice breaks and her knees knock into each other. “He's working.”

Shit. He didn't realize how this must sound. “Woah, woah, calm down. Don't- don’t cry. Fuck, don’t cry.”

She can't help it. A fear like an old enemy crawls up her spine and she slides her back down the wall. The only defense she has is to fold into herself as small as she can, pulling bony knees into her chest and holding tight. 

“Fuck, uh-” he hovers over her, bending to touch her shoulder. The contact burns her like a welding iron, he withdraws just as fast as she flinches. “Is there-? Someone I can call? I, uh, do you need me to go? I can go get someone.” He doubles back and reaches for the door.

“P-p-p-” she sputters, unable to reign in the sobs that shake her frame. “Please. Don't.”

“What do you need?” He swallows, palms suddenly tacky with sweat.

“G-go. Go.” Ophelia begs. He doesn't argue, sliding out of the door and nearly catapulting to the hallway. Whatever he had expected this evening, it wasn't that.

She is mortified with embarrassment now, but she can't stop crying. The sound is pitiful, and she's painfully aware of how well her must hear it through the walls. With how high her rent payments are, she would've assumed the loft would be a little more soundproof. 

It's a slow crawl down from hysteria. When she has thoroughly exhausted herself, she deadbolts the door and wanders to the sofa before dropping herself down. 

This time she won't sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm busy with college right now so updating is difficult, but if you comment something it literally is on my mind 24/7 to update.


	2. Emptiness is a Closet Full of Your Old Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which she finds solace in memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song suggestion for ultimate vibes: Emptiness is a Closet Full of Your Old Clothes by Wished https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0NgcL4i9t5o  
> I wrote this chapter before I heard this song and when I did I almost screamed because it's so perfect.

It comes in little pieces. Fragments of peace after a wash of grey anger cleanses the city. The rain still falls but it's light. Comforting. The deep puddles on the street below, water rushing down the gutter like a stream; evidence of the day’s storm. Volatile nature throwing a temper tantrum, she thinks. There’s nothing more beautiful in the world than this moment. Blue-grey clouds off to the left, still sparking and rumbling over a distant place. But over the buildings, from her perch on the balcony, she sees the most immaculate beauty in the world. Ripples of pink and gold and purple and orange all melting together in the spaces between clouds, on the horizon where the sun is nearing its rest. The air is cool, softened. It's easy on her lungs and gentle to the bare skin of her face. She wishes she was the only person to see the sky at that moment. It feels so intimate, she can't imagine sharing it with anyone else. Nobody could love this sky, this painted sky, like she does in this quiet little minute. It’s too perfect. Her chest is tight, like she needs to cry. She's overwhelmed. This is happiness. True happiness. And she doesn't know what to do with it.

She doesn't hear the door open from where she sits and Mike’s voice shocks her into standing. “Oph? Where are you?”

Her throat is still sore, so she waits for him to emerge. When he does, his head nearly bumps the glass door frame. As big as he is, there's nothing intimidating about his borderline oafish limbs and poor communication skills. That's why she likes him. He never fills silences that don't need to be filled.

“You look better.” He notes the slight color in her cheeks and clarity in her eyes. 

“Got some sleep.” Ophelia pulls her robe tighter around herself. “What's that?” His arm is craned behind his back. 

“I, uh, I was talking to Nanaba and we thought maybe you could use something to- you know… take care of.” He slowly extends it. She almost laughs. 

A fish. A bloated orange fish in a plastic bag of water. Just managing a slight upturn on the corners of her mouth, she holds out her hands. “You got me a goldfish?” 

“Yeah, I know. She said I should get a cat, but you’re allergic and this is easier to take care of. Unless you want a cat. We can get you a cat.”

“No, this is… it’s cool. I like him.” Her uncertain smile stretches a little further and hints at her dimples. He’s glad to see some personality returning to her. Delivering medication to a zombified woman every other day left him with a bad taste in his mouth. The extended periods of emotional vacancy were draining for the both of them. Maybe she’d be up to having Nanaba over soon for dinner. He’s sure Oph could use a little company. 

“You sure it's a dude?” He settles into a chair, knees bowing out to the sides. 

“How do you tell?” 

“Shit, I don't know. I should've asked.”

“Nah, it's okay. It doesn’t need a gender.” She tilts the bag and watches it swim to the bulge of water. “Should I name it?”

“If you want to. What’s it look like?”

“I don't know. I’ll think about it.” 

He stands again, dusting his hands on his pants. “I left a bowl for it on the counter. All the extra stuff to put in there, too. And your prescriptions are next to the fridge.” 

“Thanks.” She offers another smile, weaker than the last. “Really.”

He nods in acknowledgment. “Call me if you need anything.” 

Before closing the front door, he shouts for her to lock it behind him. Mike doesn't notice the man to his left, locking his own apartment door.

Levi watches the behemoth head for the elevator and paces his gait to stand a few feet behind him. The doors open and they both stand to opposite sides, in silence. Levi watches red numbers indicate each passing floor. “So you’re the husband?” 

“What was that?” Mike looks down to the stranger, brow furled. 

“You’re from next door? I met your wife.” 

“I, uh. Think you’re mistaken.” He chuckles awkwardly. “I don't live here, man.” 

Huh. Maybe the girl next door isn't such a girl next door. Having men over while her husband’s at work? Scandalous. “You came out of 13B, right?”

“Uh, yeah. You’ve-? You’ve met Ophelia?” Mike wracks his mind for a situation in which Oph would be able to leave the apartment without him. 

“Yeah. Black hair. Bandaged hand.” He wiggles his fingers in demonstration. 

“Uh. How- uh? How’d you meet her?” Mike can’t contain his surprise and uncertainty. 

“Unlocked her door for her.” 

“She was outside? When?” 

Levi’s eyebrows press together. What the fuck was up this dudes ass? “I don't know. Thursday night? Or Friday morning I guess.” 

“What was she doing?”

“Fuck dude, what's your deal? You keeping her prisoner or some shit?” Levi’s mild annoyance shifts into a suspicious glare. 

“Huh? No! I’m- I’m a friend.” 

“And? What's her deal?” He presses.

“She’s…” Mike grimaces. Was there some sort of client confidentiality? “She's sick.”

“How?”

“It’s- shit, it's none of your business.” Mike snaps. 

“It is when she screams through the night like a fucking banshee.” Levi retorts, crossing his arms over his chest and walking out of the open elevator doors. Mike grunts and follows. “She’s… she can't leave her place. The building. She’s got agoraphobia.”

“A-what-phobia?” Levi leans his back to a wall. 

“Agoraphobia. It’s caused by PTSD. She gets panic attacks and can't go outside.”

“So it's in her head? The sickness?” 

“Yeah. She's- she's been through a lot. If she’s doing something that bothers you, you know, like screaming at night-” Mike fishes around in his suit pocket. He hands over a business card and Levi’s eyes scan it. “-don't call the front desk or anything. I’ll take care of it, no matter how late it is. She's really attached to this place. I’d hate to make her move.”

Levi sucks on his teeth and nods. “Yeah, alright. Nice meeting you, uh-” he checks the card, “Mike.”

“Likewise, uh- didn't get your name.” 

“Levi Ackerman.” He looks at Mike's outstretched hand until the taller man awkwardly withdraws it. Like hell he’s gonna touch a stranger’s germy mitts. “Later.” He spins on his heels and struts off. Mike can't imagine why a man that small walks as tall as him.

…………………

She wonders if the fish knows it’s in a bowl. She wonders if the little pink castle in the water or the pretty rocks on the bottom or the consistent food source make any difference in whether it knows it's trapped. Whether it cares. 

She dips her finger in the water to see if it’ll come near. It doesn't. 

Is she hungry? She looks in the fridge, seeing if anything strikes her fancy. As expected, the sight of food makes her nauseous. Then she remembers she hasn’t taken anything to incite her appetite. The bag Mike brought rattles with newly filled prescriptions. So many bottles. So many pills.

She props herself on the counter and arranges her bottles to the side, noting the supplemental vitamins Mike included. He always takes such good care of her. She pops a few in her mouth, washing them down with water, and waits for the fog of apathy to return. After a bit of pointless tidying, her stomach alerts her the medication has kicked in with a low rumble. 

She makes something that doesn't require the stove. The TV fills the silence of the apartment, but she isn't paying attention to it. Her jaw begins to slack and chewing becomes too great a task so she tosses half her meal in the garbage. It’s almost full. She thinks she can get Mike to come by and take it out. 

Her eyes linger on the tv a moment. The president’s wife was condemning drug use in a commercial. Ophelia remembers the people in her old neighborhood that peddled drugs like candy. She remembers what addiction looked like, what it smelled like, how inescapable it was. This woman couldn't possibly understand. The issue, for impoverished communities, was not as simple as “saying no”. Nancy Reagan doesn't understand. 

She gets more frustrated than she probably should and turns the television off. It’s still early, far too early to go to bed. She wants to get herself on a healthy sleep schedule. Spending a few more hours awake, however, feels like an arduous task when her body is a cement block. 

The last shower she took was- what? A few days ago? Maybe three, it’s hard to say for certain. It’s probably high time to do some kind of grooming while she feels herself. These ‘good’ periods could only last so long. 

She thinks about shaving, if only to waste some time on it, but the thought itself is exhausting. Water streams over her face and she practices not breathing. When she feels light headed, she stops and sinks to the tub floor. It’s warm and safe and calming. She always forgets how much she likes bathing, viewing it more as a task than a necessity. 

The towel is a soft refuge from the cold air outside her bathroom. She wraps her shoulders in it and teeters to the bedroom on shivering legs. It’s always a careful maneuver, walking into the closet. She faces the side with only her belongings, reaches an arm high above, up on her tip toes, and pulls the light bulb on. Something subconscious begs her to turn around, look at the shelves of black and blue and brown suits, overcoats, dress shirts. But she can't. She won't do that to herself anymore. She has half a mind to ask Mike to box it up and get it out. And yet… 

She takes a step back. Then another, walking with slow, calculating steps until her bare back meets wool and linen and Egyptian cotton. The smell is deep musk, faintly smoky like an ashed cigarette. It burns her nostrils and clings to her throats with every inhale as she sinks deeper between the racks. Deeper until she’s engulfed in cold fabric and warm memories. Tension leaves her body with a heaving sigh. Each piece of cloth in here has witnessed a sacred moment, one that she feared to forget in its absence. 

A green sweater, faintly stained with wine from a clumsy first date. 

A pressed tuxedo, a gala night spent snickering together like children and sneaking off to coat rooms. 

A black peacoat, a first kiss outside of a closed skating rink.

A Mötley Crue shirt two sizes too small, a lazy Sunday morning with an engagement band hidden in the orange juice. He mixed up the glasses and almost choked on it. 

Should she clear out his things, scrub his memory from her life to spare herself the pain, she might forget. She might forget everything. 

She succumbs to oppressive exhaustion, but not before sliding herself into a stained sweater. The cocoon of warmth her blankets create send her effortlessly to sleep, and for the first night in a while, Levi doesn't wake to her screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to update sooner, I had it all written two days after my first publication but I didn't edit and then I never got around to it. College fucking sucks that way, man. 
> 
> Per usual, I would GREATLY GREATLY appreciate commentary! As in depth as you're willing to make it! It really encourages me to update sooner and make my updates longer. Thank you for reading <3


	3. Valentine's Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which she faces death once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested vibe music for the chapter:  
> Bane's World 'Valentine Curse'  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tPF4zl_jFcM

She’s already halfway through a recipe for pumpkin bread muffins when she realizes there aren’t any eggs. It had been a while since she actually ran out of anything. Usually the only food that disappeared had been sitting untouched too long and needed to be thrown out, but a newly developed appetite meant she needed a real food supply. Not a sparse collection of odds and ends. 

Her hands shake when she dials the bodega, mouthing each scribble on her list silently in an effort to loosen her tongue. A phone call shouldn't make her gut twist the way it does. It’s illogical, she knows it, but any sort of unplanned interaction was nightmare fuel. She needed time to prepare herself.

There are a few stutters and stumbles while she recites her list, but overall she feels satisfied in her ability to vocalize her needs. And she thanks god for door delivery. The store clerk used to be weary of leaving her bags outside the door, unguarded, but now it was customary. They’d yet to be tampered with, seeing as most of the people that could afford to live in her building weren’t the type to cook for themselves. Few people uptown had much use for fresh cilantro and sazón.

After feeding Fish, sweeping the floor, and playing a record she has to turn off halfway through because it reminds her of New Years Eve 1983, she’s exhausted. A nice, fat pill guides her into a deep sleep. So deep she doesn't hear the door. 

Around ten o’ clock, the hunger is unbearable, rousing her from a comatose haze. The shelves of her fridge are void of anything but condiments and her unfinished muffin batter. It takes a few moments of blinking into cold brightness to remember the grocery delivery, and the customary anxiety of opening the front door sets in. A minute or two of staring through the peephole (to rid the paranoia of someone loitering outside her door) and she squeezes her arms and head out. As she gathers her bags, a figure twitches in her periphery. The icy hand of panic reaches through her abdomen, just below her ribcage. He’s collapsed, chest to the rug and neck craned awkwardly. Small choking noises are interrupted by a stream of frothing white that pools around his sweaty, pale features. His eyes are just barely open, but the blank whiteness is visible even from her doorway, deep set in dark hollows. His limbs convulse just barely, like the last seizing motions of a dying insect. 

Every sinew in her body screams with icy fire. She tries to scream for help but her throat is stuffed with cotton, mouth gaping and wide. She stumbles backward into her apartment, falling twice in a mad pursuit for the telephone. The receiver noise is too loud in her ears as uncoils the cord as far as it will go, fingers ghosting over the numbers shakily before dialing. There’s a bile rising through her chest when a polite voice answers. “911 dispatch, what is your emergency?”

“Th-There’s a man, he’s- uh- he’s having a seizure.” The words are unplanned, foreign in her mouth, rattling against her teeth like a tin can. 

“How long has he been seizing?”

“I, I don’t know. I just went out and-” her voice wavers and breaks off into a sob. He asks for her location and she panics, initially forgetting the specifics before recalling. The instructions he gives are minimal, but the pressure to remember them glues her jaw shut. The receiver slips from sweat slicked fingers and she all but crawls to the door. He isn’t coughing anymore, in fact he hardly moves at all. She freezes. He’s dead. She knows he’s dead. His body contorts to fit the fish lens that her vision has become, far away and close at the same time. Each step sets off a firecracker in her mind as she moves towards him, legs wobbling like a newborn fawn until she buckles just beside his puddle of foaming vomit. Her hand hovers over his shoulder. He’s heavier than he looks, solid under his leather jacket. She uses her knee to prop his shoulder against as she grapples with his limp form, trying to roll him onto his side. His head lolls to the ground, eyes fluttering and breath short. He’s alive. The places where there skin meet are on fire but she can’t tell if his body is warm or if her senses are distorted.

“Hey. Hey.” She shakes him lightly. “Can- Can you hear me?” 

It feels like hours of silence, the sharp ache of terror subsiding to an oppressive emptiness. The elevator door opens down the hall and a fresh bout of heart palpitations wrack her body, but her mind is too far away to do anything but stare at the uniformed men that approach. When her neighbor is finally carted away on a stretcher and the EMT’s have pried every answer they can out of the shivering woman, she’s allowed to retreat into her apartment with arms full of groceries.  
………………….  
It’d been a bad two days. After a receiving a panicked midnight call, Mike administered sedatives that fastened her to the bed for a while. She slept and slept, too mentally fatigued to do anything but swallow pills and let her eyes fall shut.

“-please! God, no! No!” The television leaks violence and despair in flat grey tones. An old movie, she can't recall the name, but it seems familiar. So familiar, in fact, that it monopolizes her attention for the evening. The Vicodin had worn off, leaving a groggy, sour taste in her mouth and an uncomfortable buzzing in her mind. With every blink, tears sprung from the pinkened corners of her eyes, whether from dryness or fear she doesn’t know. Something about the man in this film is bothering her more than she can say. And yet, she can't change the channel.

He backs the woman against a wood-paneled wall. She screams again, begs. Light shines over her eyes, the camera zooms in on wide-blown pupils. The glint of his knife reflects in them. He pulls his arm back and shoves it forward.

Ophelia doubles over. Though the camera only alludes to violence, the blinding cold of a foreign object pulls a whimper from her throat. She can feel it. The memory pierces her skin with all the force of a blade. She remembers it. She remembers what it feels like to have a knife slide between her ribs.

The screen goes black when she slams a hand on the dial. The pain fades to a cramp and then a dull ache like an old bruise. She wishes her memories were more like scars than open wounds that fester and ooze and scab over, only to open up again. There’s nothing she can do to prepare for the repeated assaults her mind perpetrated against her, it seems anything can trigger it. While at times she feels fully and completely numb, unaffected by even the worst pain, other times leave her fragile and impressionable. A movie scene, a smell, a voice in the hallway- the simplest things can render her catatonic.

Her skin is clammy. She rests under pelting shower water, tracing blue veins in her skin with a finger. It trails up in down in broken segments, past her elbow and over her chest. She’s losing weight again. Mike won't be happy.

The puckered skin of a scar catches her finger. She traces it a few times before moving to the next one. She counts and loses track. Some are white, some are pink, others purple. Raised, indented, flat the the surface; she's a blank white canvas of ugly colors. The skin of her burnt hand looks somewhere near healing. She wonders what the scar will look like, if she’ll have any fingerprints afterwards.

She heard once that fingerprints were unique to every person. Maybe if hers were gone, she’d be no one. Maybe she could be anyone. 

There's a sweet warmth in the air once the muffins start to rise. She sits on the floor in front of the oven, peeking in through the small window. The batter puffs out and spills just over the edges of the pan. The process takes a little longer than necessary because she opens the oven a few times to impatiently test them with toothpicks.

Childishly, she bites without gauging the temperature. Her tongue recoils from the heat and she drops the bite into her open palm. A gentle knock on her door makes her jolt and drop the muffin back onto the pan.

Mike had been over just yesterday, he would've called ahead right? Or opened the door with his key? She steps with careful feet and raises up on her tiptoes to peer through the peephole. 

It was him. The neighbor. 

She stands frozen, watching him. Her fingers wrap around the door handle. She leaves the chain-lock fastened, a measure of safety to ease her nerves, and opens the door as far as the lock will allow.

He looks in through the space, noting that the apartment behind her has lights on this time. She has a little more color in her cheeks and the purple spaces under her eyes have lightened. He, on the other hand, was still suffering the effects of his little incident. 

“Hey.” He uncrosses his arms. “Gonna keep this locked?” 

“What do you want?” She ignores his joke, looking to his hands instead of meeting his eyes. 

“Uh, to thank you. I guess.” He shifts. She stares. Then she closes the door. He sighs and turns to leave, but the lock slides open with a loud click and the door opens again fully. 

It amazes him how small a space she can take up in the doorway when she steps aside. Big, dark eyes trained on his shoes, she stands with her arm held tight in the other. When he realizes she isn't going to say anything, he takes an experimental step inside. Then another, until he's across from her. She closes the door and locks it. He can see her apprehension. 

“You didn't let me introduce myself last time.” He looks around. The place is spacious but untidy, blankets strewn all over the couch like a makeshift bed, records all over the floor and kitchen counters covered in what looked like baking ingredients. God he hates a fucking mess. “I’m Levi.”

“Ophelia.”

“Yeah, you told me.” He cracks as close to a friendly smile as he can. She still lingers in the doorway, as if trying to keep as much space between them as she can.

“Oh. Forgot.” She shifts her weight onto the other leg and blinks up from uneven bangs. The first eye contact she's made. “What was, uh… what was wrong with you?” 

He hums in laughter. The question was inevitable. “I hit a few parties, hit a few too many lines.”

She blinks. “Cocaine.” He clarifies. “Too much.”

“Oh. _Oh_. Are you okay now?” 

“I'm fine. I don't do that much normally.” 

“Mm.” She tucks an unruly rift of hair behind her ear and returns her gaze to the floor. 

“I just… wanted to thank you. I know it’s hard for you to, you know… leave.” He stuffs both hands in his pockets and leans his head back against the wall.

Her eyebrows push together into a furl. “What do you… how do you know that?”

Shit. “Uh, I mean, I’ve never seen you leave. And the last time I was in here you- I just figured you must not get out much.” 

Ophelia feels oddly embarrassed. Ashamed. “Yeah.”

“Well, if you ever need anything, I’d be happy to repay you. Anything at all.” He steps forward, towards the door. At the sudden loss of her large personal space perimeter, she fidgets almost compulsively with the wrapping on her burnt hand. 

“A-actually-” she starts when he unlocks the door. He pauses. “-I, uh. I forgot to ask- I mean, I usually have someone take my trash out, but I forgot. Would you, uh, mind-?” She swallows audibly. 

The right side of his mouth stretches into something like a smile. “Yeah. Of course.”

She looks at his face for half a second before scurrying into the kitchen like a mouse. She pulls the bag out and ties the ends before handing it to Levi. He takes it, holding it at arm's length from his body and trying not to think about the germs. 

“Oh, um-” Ophelia spins around the stove and grabs a muffin from the now cooled tin. She offers it, questioningly.

“Uh, thanks.” When he moves to grab it, she almost tosses it into his hand to keep from touching fingers. “I’ll see you later.”

She sucks her lips in between her teeth and nods. He stands there a moment longer before turning to leave. She waits for the door to click shut before almost collapsing on the counter, gasping for breath like she’d been holding it the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really busy with college, but comments keep this on my mind 24/7 so that I update whenever I can. Shout out to JammingWithEdward for leaving such a beautiful one that I almost fucking cried. Honestly, given the choice I prefer comments to kudos because I love active readers.


	4. Have Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which she feels something new. 
> 
> Vibes: Mercy by Thieves Like Us https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dyItQ8s8SR0

There’s a post-war study to test the effects of trauma on dogs. They’re trapped in cages and shocked over and over again at random intervals. When the scientists open the cage doors, the control group that is only shocked once escape at the first opportunity. Those that have experienced the most pain do not. In fact, the researchers must physically drag them from their cages to show the danger has passed, that they won’t experience pain outside of the cage. Despite their cage being a significant factor in the inhumane torture, the barriers that prevent them from fleeing, the familiarity of it is preferred over the unknown, the chance that worse harm may come from the outside. Ophelia feels like the dogs. She cries for them. 

It’s quite late, she’s not sure what time. The more accustomed she gets to her pills, the less groggy they make her. She could take two and feel as relaxed as if she took a warm bath, rather than being completely indisposed as the initial effect had been. The holes in her cardigan allow a frigid breeze to raise goosebumps over her skin. The city screeches and hums below her. So far below her. People are as small as molecules, bumping and vibrating against one of each other in a constant stream. It’s comforting to see them so minuscule and fragile and distant. When she thinks of being down there with them, her mind conjures images of giants and monsters clambering around, eyeing her like prey. She shudders. The balcony edge is wide enough for her to sit on. Strange that she should fear the insignificant little bodies hundreds of feet under her toes, but not the actual distance. Not the space she’d fall through if she moved an inch or two and leaned her weight forward. Not the instantaneous darkness following impact. Not the prospect of hearing screams for a second or two before the world goes flat and empty. _There_ , she thinks. Those people aren’t so scary now. 

She draws the cardigan tight over her shoulder and swings her legs back over to the balcony, walking inside on cold toes. She latches the door, though she’s almost sure no one could scale the glass walls to the top floor. Almost sure. 

A muted noise bleeds through wall, she hadn’t heard it from outside. Voices, booming bursts of laughter, a glass crashing- the sounds of a happy gathering that send a jitter down her neck. She pads to the door, leaning up to see through her safe little window. People pass in small clusters, going down and up the hallway and occasionally loitering against the wall just outside. They’re strange. Bright hair in colors she’d never seen before, some laid flat, some spiked in every direction. None seemed quite like any other that passes, a few glittering in elegant dresses and suits, others wearing leather and spikes and wild shades fit for a Halloween. They’re all beautiful, even through the fishbowl vision of her door. The walls are thin, she can make out bits and pieces of conversations, mostly just tones of voice and ear-bleeding exclamations. It starts to hurt her head. Just as she’s about to slither back into the cozy nest of blankets on the couch, a familiar voice shouts above all the others. 

“Erwin!” She watches as a tall man brisks past, the unmistakable profile of her neighbor in close pursuit. He grabs the larger man’s arm, just before her visibility ends, and tugs him back. The man is straightening his shirt cuffs, one of the more traditional dressers of the crowd. “Let go, Levi.” He commands like a scornful father.  
“Where are you going? You said she was out of town.” The desperation in Levi’s low voice is jarring. She feels an unmistakable pang of sympathy.  
“Enough. Go back to your party.” The man tears his arm away but stands still. He looks wearily at the stragglers that unabashedly observe the pair. Levi seems unconcerned with them, slurring his words. “No, I don’t care about them. Take me with you.”

“I don't want you. You’re drunk.”

“So? I was good enough for you in the bathroom.” He reaches for the larger man’s shoulder again. He shoves Levi off roughly and storms out of Ophelia’s sight. Levi kicks the wall, scuffing it with his boot. “What the fuck are you looking at?” He spits at his audience, “Get the fuck out! Cunts!” They scatter this way and that, some leaving and others melting into the crowd within his loft. He takes something from his pocket, she starts to itch with paranoia. Like he knows she’s watching. Levi spreads a powder on the broadside of his wrist and takes quick, hard hits of it, rubbing his nose and blinking rapidly. Then he looks at her. Right through the peephole, she swears he can see her. She freezes, like a child caught with one hand in the cookie jar. When he staggers to his feet, she races to the kitchen, heart settled in the pit of her stomach and mind throbbing with embarrassment. Shit. _Shit_. Logically, she knows it’s impossible that he'd- The door rattles under banging fists and sends her elbow back into a box of cereal, knocking it the floor. With stuttering movements, she tries to pick it up and drops it again before resigning to the door. She looks out, sweat beading in her palms. “C’mon, no one’s out here.” He calls through the door, carelessly. Like he knows. He takes the cigarette from behind his ear and lights it. She checks around him for good measure before opening the door just enough for him to squeeze through. “In.” She commands, wearily eyeing the open doorway over his shoulder. His smile is lazy, the widest she’s seen it, as he wiggles inside. “Howdy neighbor.” His voice is slick, putrid with the tang of beer. The cigarette smoke he puffs is a little too familiar for her liking, but she minds it in silence. He drops his head to the wall beside him, resting his weight on it. “Party bothering you?”

“It’s fine. I wasn’t going to sleep anyways.” She feels oddly at ease with his loose and heavy movements, confident she could run much faster than him. Though, now that he’s here, she has no idea why she opened the door.

“Me neither. Can’t get those Soho assholes out now if I tried.” 

“What’s it for?”

“What?”

“The party.” 

“New campaign. Calvin Klein. I, uh- got a vogue cover out of it and a two page spread in Italian Vogue.” The cigarette bobs between his lips as he speaks. He spreads his jacket pocket open and ashes it inside. “You’re a model?” She can’t say she’s surprised. Someone wearing a mesh shirt and ripped jeans probably couldn’t afford a corner loft in this place without being famous. That and he looked like a breathing ice sculpture. He curls the side of his mouth up and rubs a hand through fashionably oily hair. “What, don’t see me in front of a camera?”

“N-no, no, it’s just- I don’t know.” She recoils into herself, words slipping from her brain. 

“I’m short.” He nods, as if she’d said it herself. 

“No, I don’t-”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m better than half those lanky assholes in there.” He nods to the door and sniffs a few times. He looks blankly at the wall a moment too long, then snaps back to her. “You wanna come over?”

“No, I’m- uh. I’m not… dressed.” She offers weakly.

“When you’re cute you can wear whatever you want. I’m sure we can find you something.” His eyes slide down her, cold and reptilian. She puts another half foot between them. “No.”

He blinks a few times and relaxes back into a careless stance, brushing off the rejection. “It’s boring anyways. S’like talking to clothing racks.” Levi pushes off from the wall and drops his cigarette carelessly into the sink as he passes it, then settles on her sofa. She stares at his feet, hovering by her bedroom door. 

“You do drugs?” He props his legs on the coffee table and reclines his head back, so lax it’s disconcerting. 

“No. I mean, yes.” She corrects herself. “They’re… prescribed.”

“Yeah? What kinds?” He lights another cigarette, though he hadn’t finished the last.

She sucks her lips in between her teeth and hugs herself. “Just some pills.”

“What, quaaludes?”

“Those are illegal.”

“Really? Shit. I know some chicks pop that shit like Pez.” He exhales a stream of smoke and lolls his head to the side, peering at her sideways. “You a priss or just shy? I can’t tell.”

She furls her brow. “What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ ,” He leans forward suddenly and she twitches. “I can’t tell if you’re an uppity bitch or a recluse.”

“Why do you care?” She’s surprised the words leave her mouth, even more by the sharp edge to them. He raises both eyebrows, taunting her with a shit-eating grin. “I, uh, don’t know, I guess I like figuring people out.”

She feels something she hasn’t felt in a long time. Irritation. “Well, I’m not a fucking puzzle, so.” 

“There it is. I knew there was a personality in there somewhere, brat.” He slams his foot on the ground and she yelps, propelling herself backwards into the wall. The regret in his features is immediate. “Shit, sorry. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

She swallows the hot saliva that pools beneath her tongue as if she would gag. “It’s… okay.”

He scratches his adam's apple and clears his throat. “Want some coke?”

“I can’t. Meds.” She shakes her head. 

“You now, David Bowie said it’s good for brain function.”

“My brain over functions. That’s what the medicine is for.” There’s tension in the air. She doesn’t know why she’s saying any of this, she wants to stop. It’s too much. 

“That why you don’t leave?”

“I guess.”

“You get lonely?”

“No. Not really.”

“Bored?”

“I guess.”

“I’d be bored. I can’t stand being bored.” He mumbles. He staggers to his feet and walks around, passively eyeing artwork and sparse picture frames. He drags his finger on the wall, stopping on a frame. Ophelia tenses. He stares at it, back facing her. He’s silent a while. “This him?” She presses her tongue to the clenched wall of teeth. “You look happy.” He continues, lifting the frame off the wall. She’s across the room before she knows it, grabbing the picture from his fingers like they’d burst it into flames. 

“Get out.”

He stares, unphased. 

“Get the fuck out. Go. Get out.” She gets feels like she could scream but she doesn’t. It’s a broken off, strangled whisper. For once, she maintains his intense glower, even though it singes her eyes.  
He doesn’t look mad. He doesn’t look anything. She doesn’t understand how someone can be so utterly emotionless. With the amount of space around them there’s no reason he should brush her shoulder the way he does. The contact travels through her bloodstream, filling her capillaries with sour milk and ashes. 

The door shuts quietly. She falls into the couch and cries. Long and hard and painfully. It exhausts her and her body shuts itself down within the hour. 

She forgets to lock the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love agaiN to JammingWithEdward, you literally pushed this whole chapter out of me. 
> 
> I'm honestly a little drunk so I didn't edit this at all, I'll probably go back and fix it at some point. I'll get lazier with editing as time goes on per usual. IF YOU WANT TO BADGER ME TO UPDATE or speak with me privately, ask questions etc. my tumblr is pussy-curse (I know. I know.), I will talk to you about ANYTHING nothing is off limits. I'm actually looking for beta readers again. ALSO I added new songs because I found one that fits chapter 2 PERFECTLY so... if you're into groovy depressing. There's that. 
> 
> BTW If you love gay shit, the 80's and Levi, I suggest my babe's Eruri 80s teendream AU fic. Shit's real good but she deleted it and remade it so it needs a little bit of love. PSA I did not steal the 80s punk Levi concept from her, I gave her the idea and helped her conceptualize the story and write the timeline and characterize Levi; ie it's functionally our baby. All the chapters (and title) are from an 80s playlist I made her. http://archiveofourown.org/works/11995173/chapters/27137796 Behold, the masterpiece that is 'Boys Don't Cry'. Tell her that Chacha sent you and she'll send me nudes.


	5. Ramblings of a Dying Adolescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vibes: Ramblings of a Dying Adolescence by Current Joys  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PxpRZI4Osjg

She wears her Sunday church dress and lays on her mother’s kitchen floor. Adults stand above her, they seem so tall. She’s sure they know everything there is to know. They step over her as if she isn’t there, isn’t blocking the way. She waits for someone to scold her, to look at her, anything. They don’t pay her any mind. It smells of stale laughter and the ground is sticky. When she speaks, her voice is milky and foreign. She doesn’t remember speaking so high. How old is she? She can’t remember. It’s so long ago.

Ophelia sits up in bed, gulping air like she’d been held under water all night. It wasn’t a particularly upsetting dream, there’s no reason to be as clammy as she is. Her morning pills sit politely on the nightstand, waiting to be swallowed. Mike must’ve stopped by while she slept. At least he didn’t try to tidy her room any. She hated people touching their- _her_ things. 

She untangles herself from the sheets, joints whining and creaking with every step towards the bathroom. Today is a good day, she decides as she fills a cup in the sink and knocks back her medication. The bathroom light doesn’t make her shy away from her reflection the way it usually does. With the shower running, she peels her pajamas off and appraises the dips and spaces in her frame. Where her fingers had once caught on jutting bones, they now slide pleasantly over in a continuous movement. Five years ago she’d been dying to look as narrow as she does now, but she misses the supple warmth of her old body. It was soft and welcoming, gentle to look at. It hadn't been perfect, but neither was this. This body is sharp and scarred. But it will do. A body is a body. 

Once every inch of her smells like cashmere and shea butter, she swaddles herself in a fluffy sweater and a pair of kitten pajama pants that hadn’t seen the light of day in years. Most of her clothes were spread thick across the floor of her bedroom. It’d been maybe two months since she last had anything washed. In about two days she’d be strapped for anything but old Christmas sweaters, but that was a thought for tomorrow. She wants tea. 

When the kettle whistles, she’s in the midst of a very pathetic struggle with a roll of medical tape. She decides the wound is well enough healed to let it air out a bit and neglects the bandages. With her health in mind, she forces herself to eat a full meal before settling in front of the record player. She closes her eyes and reaches out a hand, finger skimming thin sleeves at random before pulling one out. Al Green. She applauds her subconscious.

Sweet notes fill the apartment at full blast, she sips her tea. 1972 was a good year. This album came out a few months before she turned thirteen. She’d spent her birthday at a rollerskate rink in Harlem. It was the first time she’d worn lipstick outside of the house, her mother was furious. She’d felt so much older back then. Older than she is now. There was something about growing up that made her so much younger. Maybe it is the naive trust in inevitable cosmic balance that she’s lost track of, the ability to take solace in herself and others, or the terrifying realization that adults don’t automatically know everything as she’d once assumed. For a while, pretending to understand was fine. But now that she had trapped herself in a fortress of beta blockers and aching solitude, she couldn’t pretend. She is as unsure of the greater forces in the world as the thirteen year old that stole a swipe of her mother’s Coral Crush lipstick. She is unsure of the small forces too. And yet, as blistering as his company is, her brush with the neighbor restored some sense of adulthood the other night. Being able to stand her ground to a stranger, even within the security of her own walls, was more than she thought herself capable of any more.

He stands on the other side of the door, closed fist hovering over it. In all the months he’s lived here, he’s yet to hear her play music. When the song fades into the next he knocks just loud enough for her to hear. The record scratches unmistakably and a glass clatters. He clenches his teeth together hard to keep from laughing when she opens the door in the ugliest outfit he’s ever seen. “Go away.”

“I wanted to apologize.”

“You did.”

“I wanna apologize for that apology.” 

“Okay. Bye.” 

He shoves a boot in between the door and the frame to stop her from closing it. “Look, I’m significantly less of an asshole when I’m sober. Let me help you clean some of the shit all over your place and we’ll call it square.”

Her chin juts out like a cross child. “It’s… It’s fine the way it is.”

“I can barely see the floor.”

“So... don’t look for it.”

As hard as he tries, Levi can’t help but crack a half-smile. “C’mon, I’m a sucker for repentance.”

“Leave me alone and all is forgiven.”

“That’s not very neighborly.”

“Neither is barging in at midnight to do coke on my sofa and make fun of me.”

“See? You won’t forgive me unless I make it up to you.” He leans his head on the door frame, blinking slow. His pupils are blown wide. He’s high. His notions of sobriety must exclude cocaine. “What, you have something better to do, brat?”

“Do you not?” She snaps, but unlatches the chain lock anyways. He jokingly shakes his fist in victory and slithers in, heading immediately for the record player. “Ah, what’ve we got.” He flips through the albums, wrinkling his nose at a few titles before finding something he doesn’t despise. “You don’t look like an Iggy Pop kind of chick.”

“You look exactly like an Iggy Pop kind of chick.” She mutters as he drops the arm. 

“Tch. I saw him in London. Wild show.”

“I saw him when he was still playing the CBGB.” She counters, almost spitefully. This asshole really thought he was entitled to the 70s punk-wave. He turns to her with only the slightest expression of interest. It was hard to decipher, but she was beginning to notice the subtle movements of his features to indicate his was, indeed, not carved from ivory. “When?”

“Like ten years ago.” She settles into the far end of the couch. 

“How old _are_ you?” 

“Twenty-five. I snuck in with some older friends.”

“I can’t see you in a punk dive.” He starts collecting records from the floor and returning them to open spaces on the shelf. “I can’t see you anywhere.”

She doesn’t know why it hurts her feelings, but it does. “Well, shit was different then.”  
“Was it, though? Iggy Pop’s still out there. So’s the whole world. You don’t miss it?” He looks at her from the corner of his eye as he gathers items off the rug and places them in convenient spots. She watches his hands wearily. “Doesn’t matter. P-please don't-” he freezes when she calls out. She swallows. “Don't touch that.” 

The tips of his fingers stop millimeters away from the picture frame. The same one he’d grabbed the other night. Levi withdraws and starts folding blankets that had slipped from the couch. “If you wanna talk about him, you can.” He doesn’t look at her as he says it. She feels like he knows more than she’s said. But maybe it’s just paranoia.

“No.” Suddenly each sinew in her stringy limbs is replaced with lead. She weighs a million pounds, gravity pinning her down. This is exhausting. She wants to sleep.

“Whatever.” He brushes off and continues tidying odds and ends until the space has some semblance of dignity. Ophelia tucks her feet under herself and pulls a blanket to her chin. It feels like a barrier of protection. Levi collapses into the sofa, leaving what he feels is a comfortable space between them but she itches to catapult herself over the back of the seat. “You got any… uh- fuckin’ hobbies?” He strains for some sort of conversation, face unpleasantly scrunched.

“Not really.” Her voice is muffled by the blanket she presses to it, eyes staring straight ahead. The bags under her eyes feel heavier than ever and under his gaze she feels horribly exposed. 

“Nothing you, like, do?”

Ophelia presses her lips together before opening them, begrudgingly. “I used to write.”

“Yeah? Anything I would’ve read?” He’s pulling teeth, he knows it, but he won’t stop.

“Can you read?” It comes out before she thinks to stop it, and they both drop their jaws.

“Was… was that a joke? Did you just… make a joke?” His mouth curls at the edges cartoonishly. “Fuckin’ brat.” 

A pinkish color prickles her cheek. “Fuck off. I never published anything.”

“You any good?” He pulls a slightly misshapen cigarette from his pocket and sparks it. She opens her mouth to ask him to take it outside but stops short. “What do you mean?”

“Are you good?” He repeats, tone pointed and eyes like daggers.

“I-I don’t know.” 

He scoffs, smoke billowing out like a dragon’s breath. “Yes you do. Everyone’s insecure about the shit they do, but you either think it’s good and don’t wanna seem like your head’s up your ass, or you honestly think it’s worthless. So-” He leans his body to face her. “ _Are you good_?”

Her heart jumps. Meeting his eyes is like touching a hot coal. She can feel the skin burning off and sticking to them, hear the hiss of burning flesh. “I... don’t like the place it comes from.”

Levi is pleasantly surprised. “But it’s where the best shit comes from.”

“I guess.” She mumbles.

“Give me something to read.”

 

“No.”

He sighs and presses the end of his cigarette into a half-full glass of water. “What, don’t think I’ll ‘get it’?”

“It’s all gone.”

He twitches an eyebrow up. “What?”

“It’s gone.”

“Where?”

“Burned it.”

“Tch. That’s fucking dramatic.” His eyes roll to the side. “Very artsy, though. Props for commitment.” 

The silence is audible. He sniffs. “You cold or scared?”

She shifts the blanket and shrugs. “Both.”

“Mm.” He bites his cheek and skates over her profile. “You know, you’d be a nice piece of ass if you smiled.”

Her neck snaps when she turns it, teeth gritted painfully. He seems amused, proud of himself even. “I don’t see a smile.” 

“Get-” 

“Out? I was bored as fuck anyways.” He stands up with languid limbs, stretching his arms behind his head. The bottom of his shirt lifts, exposing an unnerving amount of small bruises that she has to tear her eyes from.

She trails after him as he floats to the door, oddly eager to hear the reassuring click of her the deadlock. Levi swings the door open and freezes in place. She, mindlessly waddling behind, almost walks into him. 

“Levi.” A low voice clears it’s throat and ties a knot in her gut. 

“You should call first, I was… _preoccupied_.” Levi leans against the doorframe, leaving Ophelia in plain view of the stranger. He’s the man from the other night, the one he’s been arguing with in the hall. Erwin’s eyes graze over the unkempt state of the woman, jaw set. “Good morning.” It’s cordial. Cold.

She shrinks in place, dropping her eyes to the ground. 

“Sorry to bother you, then. I’ll… come back later” He looks back to Levi. The smaller man enjoys the tension he’s caused far too much. “Whatever, just come in.” He saunters to his own door, humming a farewell to Ophelia and leaving her at the mercy of this man twice her size as he unlocks the door. Erwin stands just where he had before, still glowering at the little imp. Too flustered to process any other options, she slams the door without warning and lets the lock click noisily. 

“Pretty girl.” Erwin notes, feigning disinterest as he follows Levi into his loft.

“She’s a writer.” He boasts, revelling in what he feels is a small victory. “ _Great_ hands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I got caught up in shit this week, I meant to finish this sooner. I'll try harder to keep up, but I'm working a lot. Thank you so much for the sweet ass, long ass comments. They like.... force me to get off my ass and write.


	6. Peach Overalls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peach Overalls- Richie Woods  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bh5ZiskwQjA
> 
> you're a peach pit   
> I am dog shit   
> peaches, peach pits   
> I feel alright  
> Love is in your blood, Ophelia  
> It's gonna be fine  
> Even if you're not alive

His eyes drool slow, fat tears. He’s quick to slap them away, but the smeared black trail is evidence enough. _No, you fucking weak piece of shit. You will not cry over him._

The harsh noise of flesh meeting flesh breaks the silence. One. Two. Three. He still holds a lit cigarette with one hand while the other slaps himself back into sanity. Levi grits his teeth together like a dam holding his screams at an ebb. Rage sparks and splits through his body, his knee jittering up and down like a tick. _Fucker_ … that mother _fucker_. 

_“It’s just pillow talk, Levi. You knew I didn’t mean it.”_

Promising to leave his wife? That’s pillow talk? Smug fucking cunt bitch! He hates him, he hates him, he hates him. Cocaine was only a problem to Erwin when he wanted to blame Levi’s so-called ‘antics’ on it. _“It’s the drugs, Levi, you’re not making sense. Go home and get some sleep.”_ Levi this, Levi that, Levi you’re drunk, Levi you’re high, Levi you’re hysterical. He makes it seem like he isn’t the one that buys it all, that gets him invited to those stupid parties where blow is served on fine china like a fucking appetizer, like he hasn’t been encouraged and enabled in every possible way, only to be written off and humored like a testy toddler. _Motherfucker!_

The chair slams to the ground behind him. He picks it up and tosses it at the coffee table. Everything in here is disgusting. Filthy, disgusting, touched by everyone. Just like him. The sharp cringe of glass breaking under blunt force satisfies him to his core. Like a whirlwind tornado, he rips through the apartment, ruining anything his feet and hands can reach. Every stupid, expensive thing that Erwin had put in this place to make it feel like more than a casket in which to rot. God, he fucking hates him. Levi fucking hates him. 

She listens through the wall. Sensitive ear pressed to a thin barrier between her quiet chaos and his belligerent chaos. Every crash and thud makes her jolt, but she can’t tear herself away.

Levi’s hand catches a shard of glass and he stumbles backwards as if repelled by the pain. He clutches his wrist, wincing and heaving. He’s sure he could throw up. “Fucker! Motherfucker!” He wails, pounding his foot to the tiled floor. Breath escapes his mouth in noisy, broken gulps.

Ophelia swallows, knuckles hovering over the drywall. Her hand stutters to a halt the first time she tries to knock, but she wills it to move. First softly, then with a gentle force. The wall is silent.

Did he hear that right? It wasn’t the door, the noise was too hollow. He strains to hear.

One. Two. Three. She rests her cheek to the cold wall after a final knock. 

He touches the wall, completely entranced with the realization that there’s someone on the other side. Someone he didn’t expect to initiate any sort of contact. There’s no doubt she heard him destroy his loft. Was she trying to tell him to shut up, or asking if he was alright? He finds himself in front of her door before bothering to answer the question himself.

The lock clicks, the chain slides, and he’s met with the biggest brown eyes he’s ever seen. “Are you okay?”

He’s surprised she speaks first. “Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Broke some shit.”

“Why?”  
“Felt like breaking some shit.”

“Is that blood?” She visibly pales at the droplet that slips from his closed palm to the white linoleum of the hallway. 

 

“Looks like it is.” He spreads his fingers out and appraises the gash. It’s short in width but deep. 

Her throat bobs and she steps away from the door. “Hold on.” She disappears around the corner. He takes the cue to step inside and linger awkwardly in the kitchen. “Wash it in the sink!” She calls from somewhere in her bedroom, voice cracking with the strain. The water runs a milky pink as his blood dilutes it. The sting doesn’t subside. His torn flesh wiggles under the stream. She returns on light feet, he imagines those little birds that run between waves on the beach. The little plastic box she opens overflows with gauze and ointments, antiseptics and bandages. “Uh… dry it off.” She whispers. He looks around for a towel but resorts to wiping his palm on his shirt. Then he holds it out.

Her fingers stretch out, like she’s going to grab it. But she stops short. Levi watches expectantly and feels suddenly aware of the dark hollows beneath his eyes. “I’ll do it.” He sighs, pulling an antibacterial from the kit and smears a glob over the wound. “Sorry.” “I know.”

She holds onto the counter like it’s her center of gravity. He clenches and unclenches his fist, testing the wrapping. “Why can’t you touch me?” The words tumble from his mouth before he can think them through. 

“I- I- I…” her mind stutters for an answer. The best one she can muster is, “it burns.”

Levi doesn’t say anything more. He wraps his arms around his midsection and slouches. They stand there for a while, eventually the jittering in her limbs calms to a slight discomfort. “You- uh… have a lot of… this shit.” He juts an elbow at the first-aid box.

“Oh, uh, I… yeah. Use it a lot.” She weakly holds her bandaged hand up. It doesn’t sting so bad anymore. Something like a laugh falls out of Levi’s throat. “Oh, I forgot you’re fucking crazy.”

Ophelia sucks her bottom lip in. Her eyes fall to the floor. 

“It’s… it’s a joke. I just split my hand wrecking my apartment because a guy won’t call me back. You can’t beat me.” He wipes his hand across his nose and lifts himself to sit the counter. 

She lingers awkwardly near the fridge. Instead of speaking, she starts rearranging the magnets. 

“So… do you… do you do stuff like that often?” 

There it is. The sharp twinge of panic. Her fingers close tight over an orange letter ‘J’. She swallows. “Yeah.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you do it then?” 

“Why do you?” She snaps her head to the side and stares holes through his wrapped hand. He opens his mouth and closes it, like a guppy gasping for air. “I didn’t hurt myself, it was an accident.”

“Snorting lines and breaking things is better than cooking my hand for a few seconds?” The malice in her words is so unexpected he visibly startles. 

“Fuck.” What she thinks is remorse melts into a sly smirk. “Bites worse than your bark, huh, Oph?” 

“Don’t call me that.” She breathes. He doesn’t hear. The rubber soles of his boots squeak on the floor when he jumps down and walks a trail to the sofa. With the arrogance she is becoming accustomed to, he plops down and swings his legs up to the table in the same movement. “Are you gonna ask or what?”

Bitterly, she curls her legs on the floor. “Ask?”

He twitches an eyebrow up. “You’re really not going to?” 

“I don’t understand…” she shakes her head and her mind starts to flip through possible points of conflict like blaring radio stations. 

“I’m not gay.” 

Oh. “It’s not my business.” 

“I just don’t care about genders. They’re boring.”

“Then why do you care if I thought you were gay?”

He sticks his tongue in his cheek and stares until she meets his eyes. “I dig the cute and clueless act, princess, but you wanna let up anytime soon?”

Her nose wrinkles. “I’m not clueless, you’re just a fucking onion.”

He half-scoffs, half-laughs. “Onion?”

“Layers. And you smell bad.” 

This time he really laughs. “Solid burn, brat. But I’m clean as shit.”

“I know. Your aftershave. It’s bad.”

“God, I give you an inch and you take a mile. Quit busting my ass for a second if you can help it.” He leans forward. “And in the nature of full transparency, I don’t want you to think I’m a homo because I imagine out of those god awful overalls, you’d be a fucking dime.” 

She can feel the sharp sting of heat in her cheeks and the subtle rising tide of nausea, but does her best to fixate elsewhere. Peach overalls and the itch to start a fight. The rush of frustration that seemed to accompany him was addictive. “There’s nothing wrong with these.” She mopes.

“Tch. You look seven.” 

“Whatever.” She pulls her legs in a little tighter. The ache of exhaustion starts to collect in her joints. This is draining and she can’t remember which pills she’d taken if she took any at all. But Levi had come here for a reason. As strange as he is, there is something oddly familiar about him that she couldn’t place. Whatever it is, she knows the only way to get him out was to give him what he wanted. Attention.

“Are you gonna talk about it or what?” 

“Hn?” He flicks his zippo open and closed, staring at the flame. 

“You didn’t break stuff because he didn’t call you. What happened?”

He breathes out through his nose and snaps the lighter closed. “He, uh... -” he interrupts himself with a dry, mean chuckle. “He told me he was gonna leave his wife.”

“He has a wife?” She can’t help herself.

Levi’s eyes roll to the side. “A pregnant one. If you’re gonna keep making that fucking face, I’m not gonna say anything else.”

“Sorry, I just- sorry.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He manifests a cigarette from his pocket. He lights it and the smell hits her like a brick wall. Oh. Not a cigarette. He catches her twisted expression. “What, you want a hit?”  
“I don’t do drugs.”

“‘S not drugs, it’s weed.”

She blinks. He stares until he can’t and chuckles. “Anyways, long story fucking short, he’s my manager. Books my shoots, buys my drugs, and fucks me on the side. Says he loves me and then goes home to Connecticut to his cushy fucking life and cushy fucking wife and pretends I don’t exist. Then he calls me a crazy fucking junkie and I’m just so…” The crack of his knuckles makes Ophelia twitch. Smoke pours sloppily from his mouth when it opens again. He turns to her with a sudden thought. “What does it feel like?”

She’s somehow unaware of her own existence and doesn’t answer until she realizes he addressed her. “What?”

“Love. What does it feel like?” He stares at the ceiling like a painting he doesn’t understand. 

“U-Uh…” She pulls her arms in at an awkward angle so they bow out like chicken wings. “I-I uh… it’s like you’re dying a little bit. Like there’s never enough air, anywhere. You’re just… choking. Constantly. And then this person shows up a-a-and you can _breathe_ and run and jump and… I don’t know... climb mountains. The world just… opens up. There’s so… so _much_. So much to live for. And there’s nothing you’d ever want but their happiness. It’s like blood in your veins, air in your lungs, food in your stomach... and s-sometimes it’s a punch in the gut but it…” she swallows and her voice cracks into a whisper, “it’s always worth it.”

When she looks up, he’s staring so intently, half his blunt is ash. “There’s that poetry I’ve been looking for.” 

She feels jittery. She hasn’t put that many words together since… _God_. “I don’t know what I’m talking about.” she mumbles and scratches a hand over her hair. 

“Yes you do.” He says matter-of-factly and drops his half-smoked backwood in an empty vase. “Where’s the fucking alcohol in this place?”

“I don’t drink.” 

“Everybody drinks, babydoll.” He starts rustling through cabinets with the eye of a child on a scavenger hunt. 

“Th-there’s bourbon on top of the fridge. From my wedding. It’s-” 

He’s already climbed on the counter, reaching for the dusty bottle with greedy fingers. “Aged, huh? Looks like we’re sipping classy tonight.” 

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can.” He comes clattering back to the living room with two glasses and a bottle in hand. “Come sit over here, I’ll make a pillow barrier between us.”

“I really can’t drink.” She sloths to the seat, pressing to the arm of the sofa as he stacks three throw pillows in the center for good measure. “My medication…”

“If I can do two lines and down half a bottle of Jameson in one night, you can have a glass.” He pops the bottle open easily, though she’s sure anyone else would’ve needed a corkscrew.

“Didn’t you overdose in my hallway a few weeks ago?”

“And I’m alive, aren’t I? I didn’t say it’s a great idea, I said you won’t die.”

A girl could wish. He pours her roughly two mouthfuls but fills his halfway. When he tries to hand it to her, Ophelia reaches for the rim rather than meeting his fingers. The liquid almost splashed out when he lets go but he doesn’t say anything. They’re becoming accustomed to the nature of one another. 

It’s bitter and hot in her mouth. She keeps it in her mouth a moment, bulging her cheeks, before she can force herself to swallow with an audible noise of disgust. Levi watches her from the corner of his eye as he lets the liquid slide down his throat with no resistance. “You’re a baby. This shit’s smooth as hell.”

“Shut up.” She mutters. “It’s been a long time.”

He sinks deeper into the couch. “So… You want another one?”

Within thirty minutes, she’s curled beside the toilet, stomach empty of anything but bile. Vomit isn’t his thing, he’d been standing outside the door waiting for the heaving to stop. Her bones are rattling with cold, abdomen sore like she’d just run a mile and dropped to do a few hundred sit-ups. “No more drinking, I guess.” He kneels closer than she would allow if she could manage an objection. “Come on, let’s brush your teeth. You smell like shit.” 

Something cold brushes her cheek. He dabs a wet cloth over her face to make sure he won’t get any barf on his jacket. When he slips his hands under her armpits to lift her, her eyelids flutter open. Suddenly, the strength returns to her body and she bucks wildly against him, slapping and pawing at anything her hands can reach. “What the fuck?” He shouts when her nail draws a red line across his cheek. Her body thuds to the floor as he drops her, narrowly missing the toilet. “Shit! What the fuck was that?” He holds a hand to his face then pulls it away to check for blood.

_”You’ll regret that, little slut!” The boot crunches her ribs. She shouldn’t be alive. There’s so much blood, she thinks. It can’t all be hers._

“What’s wrong with-“ Levi’s mouth hangs wide. In the fourth grade, he’d seen his friends pet rabbit die of a heart attack. She looks just like it. Body jittering like it’s going to explode, eyes wide and empty black, curled into the smallest position possible. He’s sure she’s looking right through him. Suddenly, she starts to heave again, sobs tearing her body like animal cries. Though he’d been sure she didn’t have anything left to upchuck, she manages just a little bit more on the circle rug in front of the bath. 

_”Get off her, man, we gotta go!” “Shut the fuck up!” Sweat. Rust. Vomit. The smell is obscene, she can’t escape it. Her eye’s sting, vision fading from her left side with pulsing black. This is how she’ll die._

“Fuck.” Levi slides to the floor near the door. He won’t touch her again. “What happened to you?” There’s no answer. He didn’t expect one.

She’s sober now. The alcohol hadn’t metabolized much before her mouth had poured it back into the toilet bowl. The panic doesn’t fade as much as it plateaus. Her muscles sting with effort, mind vibrating between then and now, both dark and uncertain and _terrifying_. Phantom wounds reach through her spine, her gut, her throat. “Let yourself out.” She husks, struggling to her knees. 

“Let me help you into bed.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“I won’t.” He collects himself from the tile and goes to pull her duvet back. She crawls pitifully behind him, too tired to object anymore. He fluffs the pillows and shoves a few random items from the sheets to the untidy floor. When he disappears from the room, she strains to slide onto the mattress. Bleary-eyed, she watches him materialize with a glass and a pill-bottle she assumes he found in the kitchen. “Two.” He rattles some onto the nightstand. “Come on, it’ll help you sleep.”

Her fingers fail to collect them a few times. He itches to help her, just grab the blue capsules and place them against her lips, but corrects himself quickly. He slides the cup closer to her. Her mouth is full of steel wool and acid, hungrily gulping water down to sate a thirst she didn’t know she had until it touched her lips. The glass slams back down simply because her hands are too weak to slow the landing. 

“Go to sleep, brat.” 

He doesn’t have to tell her twice. She rolls to her side with hollow bones, hardening into a statue, a weeping angel collapsed over a tombstone. “Good night… Ophelia.”  
The air on the balcony pricks his skin like a thousand needles. Wind a deafening howl, blocking every thought from his head. He holds the smoke in his lungs until it burns, soaking in every last molecule of nicotine. It calms the dread that had tied itself a sailor’s knot in his gut. Eventually he drifts back inside, tidying up odds and ends. Force of habit. The sofa calls to him with a siren’s song. Levi collapses into it, a swelling tide of fatigue lulling him to sleep.

He wakes to a burning sun and a throat stuffed with cotton. Half-rolling, half-falling off the couch, he wobbles to the kitchen sink and lowers his mouth to the stream. A few splashes over his face and he’s awake. Stiff joints crack when he stretches. He wonders if he should wake her or let her rest, it was already noon. He figures she’ll have a fucking heart attack if he does, so he’ll leave her alone. She’ll probably be hungry when she wakes up, seeing as she hurled half her body weight. Which wasn’t a lot when she was probably as heavy as one of his biceps, but nevertheless, he’d take it on himself to restore her. 

A plate of pancakes and six eggs later, he peaks in her doorway. The plate almost slips from his hand when he meets her wide-open eyes, pink and purple rimmed and peaking out from the mound of blankets. “Why are you still here?”

“I, uh, didn’t wanna leave you alone last night. How long have you been awake?”

“SInce you dropped the pan.”

“Oh. Shit, my bad.” He steps in, hesitantly, giving her time to turn him away. “Got an appetite?”

She sits up gingerly and tugs her sweater sleeves down. At some point in the night she’d managed to kick her overalls off. Even beneath the blankets she felt vulnerable. “Yeah. Thank you.”

He sets the plate down drops to the rug beside the bed. “So… feel better?” 

The fork feels too heavy in her limp wrist. Leaden. “Yeah.”

“Really? You look like shit.”

She hovers the bite in front of her mouth. “So do you, crackhead.” 

“ _Cokehead_ , thank you. I make too much money to do crack.” 

Her jaw works to chew, almost too much work to justify eating. He watches more intensely than he should, trying to imagine her with rosy cheeks and a smile. “You wanna talk about last night?”

“No.” The fork clatters to the plate. “Can you go home?” 

“You’re gonna kick me out after I cook and clean? What am I, a maid?” He motions to the nearly barren floor. He’d had a little extra time while the pancakes cooked. 

Ophelia freezes, scanning the room. Somehow she hadn’t noticed. “Y-you…?”

“Your welcome.”

She pushes back the sheets, scrambling out of bed to run her hands over the shelves and surfaces of her room, checking for important things. A golf ball blocks his throat and he swallows it down, sliding over the bare expanse of her legs. They’re littered with scars too big and oddly placed to be self-inflicted. Unless they are. He can’t be sure. But they’re stick thin, reminiscent of the skeletons he had to pose with at shoots. And yet, he wasn’t disgusted. Not even close. There was something gentle in her battered limbs. Maybe because he knew how mangled she was inside, he pitied her. No, not pity… something… softer. Admiration? God, he couldn’t figure it out. “Uh… you wanna put on some pants? It’s a little late in the day for me to get a morning wood.” 

She snaps from her dazed fixation and looks down at herself, blistering with heat when she realizes the absence of clothing. “Don’t freak out. Here.” He pulls a pink bundle from her bed and tosses it to the floor. “I was joking. Takes a lot more to strike my interest.” She doesn’t grace him with a reply, stumbling into the pants with wobbling knees. “Why don’t you run a bath, you probably smell like puke. I’ll be out there.” Levi shoots her a pointed look and closes the door behind himself. The plumbing squeaks to life through the wall and he decides to put on a record. Fleetwood Mac? Joni Mitchell? Where the fuck is all her good stuff? He flips through until he finds a Sex Pistols album. Then he settles into the rug and does a little bump off the corner of the vinyl cover. His headache disappears immediately and his mind starts to drift to the steamy shower just a few doors away. God, he’s a fucking sicko. She’s got the emotional stability of a busted seesaw. He can’t entertain shitty thoughts like that. 

The shrieking guitar of Sid Vicious and the muffled shower hide the click of an opening lock. Mike steps inside and almost drops the groceries at the sight of a head of black that isn’t Ophelia’s. “What the fuck are you doing in here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per usual I meant to update much sooner but got caught up in school bullshit and an ever worsening mental health condition. Shout out to Ari for always reading and being understanding of my shitty procrastination, I love you. I'm nearly done with my semester so I should, in theory, have more juice to write over the holidays but don't hold me to it. If y'all are interested in the full spotify playlist that inspires me, let me know. I really hope you're listening to the songs every chapter because they basically write this shit for me.
> 
> Please COMMENT your opinions, hopes and dreams. I prefer constructive criticism and analysis over kudos. I'm really trying to become a better writer through this and I'd really appreciate vocal readers.   
> All the kisses in the world,  
> Chacha


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